


Quest Accepted

by smileyfacegauges



Category: Original Work, Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: Forsaken, M/M, Multi, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Original work - Freeform, Tauren - Freeform, Troll - Freeform, classic, classic wow, it's definitely gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-11-24 11:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileyfacegauges/pseuds/smileyfacegauges
Summary: Simon Drury became his own escort quest, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with that.





	1. I Put You On Follow

Simon didn’t need the warmth, but he built the fire anyway. He prodded the crackling, blackening logs with a stick. The smoke puffed away into the evening, and into the face of a man made of stitches. 

That guy wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He was forcibly quiet, as his lips had been sewn tightly shut. Someone forgot to sew his throat, Simon figured, since the man’s worryingly purple tongue hung from the hole. That arrangement didn’t even make any sense to him, and again he shamelessly stared. A tongue wasn’t supposed to be able to do that, the way it was arranged in a person’s mouth and throat, and yet there it hung, seemingly stretched beyond average length and pouring from the top of his throat.

This medical experiment didn’t stare back. He was looking into the fire with that same hollow gaze that he carried everywhere. Simon couldn’t tell yet if there was anything conscious happening in that patchwork head. The man was made of mismatched skins both stretched and creased and a structure that suggested his bones could have been harvested from various patients as well.

He didn’t even know his name, or if he had one. Simon took his stare into the fire, too. In terms of togetherness, he was doing much better than this fellow, and he was even beating him on the attractiveness charts. It was a standard that was lower than the canyons, but he’d take what he could get.

Simon used the stick to pry off pieces of bark. They were (mostly) alone in Silverpine. Simon had gained his silent companion when he was saved from a son of Arugal. The beast had been tackled and battled to its death, and Simon stood stupid beneath a tree. Then the warrior turned to him, sheathed his sword upon his back, and impatiently gestured for him to go. 

When he went, he followed.

He guessed it was kind of nice to know someone had his back. The Forsaken, as they were now, were a bitter people. He understood that. Simon was pretty bitter too, and it looked a lot like this nameless abomination was in the same boat.

Simon lifted his eyes to stare again, and found that he was being watched first. He jolted in surprise, then frowned in shame. This guy’s eyes were dead (pun not fully intended and irony noted), harsh, and somehow all-knowing. If he still had hair on the back of his neck, it would have raised. Simon couldn’t get goosebumps anymore and still he felt the eeriness creeping in his spoiled guts. 

So, he tried a smile. It was a mockery of a smile, and had no purpose other than show that he was unsettled, and of course he received nothing back. He shrugged a shoulder and nodded at his apparent protector.

“Nice night, huh?”

Not even a tongue curl. Simon knew he could do that since the damn thing wagged and bowled when he watched Simon picking herbs, or before he charged into battle, or when Simon was cutting out a heart, or when Simon was hunched over his alchemy. If there was a certain emotion he was trying to convey, he hadn’t cracked that code yet.

He returned his eyes to the fire. He didn’t need to rest, he didn’t need to sleep, or eat, and this was just for the comfort of a time that was beyond his days now.

Simon dug in his bag for a notebook and pencil and began to tally his inventory of herbs and necessities to pick up in the next town. He quickly fell into his own world then, wrapped up in a hobby he could finally pursue without worries or time constraints; the thing that made him happy.

Across the fire, the dead eyes stared.

And the tongue curled.


	2. Repeatable Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon might be a dumbass.

It took a little longer than it should’ve (way too long, really, if anyone was gonna be honest about it) to figure out that the patchwork warrior was illiterate. 

Simon had winced and slapped himself right in the eye the moment he figured it out. He should’ve asked his protector to write his name down sooner. It also explained how he stared blankly at signs, notices, and rejected his grocery list as well as his money for it - and Simon thought he was just stubborn. Or brainless. He had a higher wager on the brainless angle.

That was a pretty hypocritical thing to think as someone with a third of their brain missing and unexplained abilities to still operate at all other than some scrambling memory loss.

Impossibilities aside, when Simon asked him if he could read or write, he got a slow head shake in response. He couldn’t really tell since he was still trying to understand how to read his emotions, but he was pretty sure that the guy was calling him stupid with his eyes.

After nearly two months since they started traveling together, Simon now knew that the (a) reason their communication was so poor was because he never bothered to try to write to him. Good heavens. Where was his mind? 

Oh yeah.

But this presented another problem. Now he felt an obligation to teach him to read and write. Simon was no teacher and the concept of teaching _that_ in particular gave him the skittering bugs of anxiety. (Now they actually were bugs that were disturbed when his mushy organs were jostled.) He wasn’t about to pawn off the task on someone else, but he didn’t know where to start, and they’d have to work on the road.

He asked him, while they stood in the dark, damp Tarren Mill square: _Do you want to learn to read and write?_

The tongue twitched and swung back and forth. Simon still was at a loss over what any of the tongue language meant. I don’t know what that means, he thought irritably, squinting with growing impatience into the stitched face.

Then, the warrior nodded. Simon let out a sigh and relaxed his shoulders. _Okay. I don’t really know how to do that, but we’ll figure it out._ He looked around the dim square and locked on to the dilapidated inn. They could start that night. They could start with an alphabet. All they needed was pen and paper.

He gestured for his companion to follow (as if he wasn’t going to) and made way to pay the innkeeper for a decrepit room for the night. Simon felt a burst of confidence and pride as they climbed the stairs and when he sprawled out papers on the desk.

Maybe this wasn’t gonna be as hard as he thought.

The silent warrior gently disagreed.


	3. Grey Item

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing increased to 1.

Okay. So this whole ‘teaching to read and write’ thing was going to be much harder than he thought.

This time, the warrior agreed.

As it turned out, either by the cruel will of his unoriginal hand or the unknowns residing in his head, the man was also an amateur in holding a pencil. He didn’t appear to be frustrated about it; more like resigned, like yet another problem added to the list of his shortcomings.

Simon spent the first portion of their studies showing him how to properly hold a pencil. The fingers were clunky and awkward. The pencil flipped, fell, bounced across the room, broke from his powerful grip, and did everything but be held.

Soon he found himself with his hands propping up his head by his cheeks, his one normally proportioned eye at half mast while he stared tiredly at his student. He heaved a sigh and dropped a hand to the table. 

“Okay. I have to say, I didn’t realize it was going to be worse teaching you to hold a pencil than it was to teach you to read and write.”

He was given a deadpan, sour glare. Simon smiled noncommittally and reached to, again, correct the way he held the utensil.

The warrior jerked his hand back. Simon reared back in surprise and lifted his hands away as he slouched in the chair. “Alright, alright. All you.”

Grave concentration folded his mismatched face, and he spent a long, uncomfortable minute switching the pencil in his fingers until he settled on what was least annoying. Then, he placed the lead to the paper, in the blank space beside the first letter. 

His first scrawl was expectedly disappointing, and the best part of the whole night. Simon found himself smiling while the abomination copied letter after letter, folded so low over the table that his nose could’ve brushed the paper.

He did notice, once he was finished, was that his tongue had been dragging on the parchment this whole time. It left a greasy grey smear on the table and the lower half of his work, and as Simon grimaced at the gross sight, he reached to inspect the page.

It was on par with a child’s first step towards literacy. Not great, not bad. He looked over the edge at his pupil. The warrior was staring at him, waiting for his score, and the tongue hung loose under his jaw.

Simon turned the paper face up and slid it over. “Pretty good. Nooowww,” he said, pulling out a new piece of parchment, “you get to do it again.” He tapped the blank page and sat back again, arms folded, and a smile on his face. “You know what’s fun about this? We could do this aaaallll night. Just think of how far you’ll be along in the morning. You get a real jump on other beginners.”

The tip of his slimy tongue flicked. Simon’s smile softened. The patchwork man got right back to work, and his mentor set in for a long night.


	4. Aggro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon may have lost a business partner.

Collemer leaned slightly to the side on his stool to get a better look around Simon at someone’s attempt at dark humor. The fellow seemed just as unimpressed with him as the textile merchant was, and he took his stare up at Simon from under his brows.

“And who is that?” he asked him, his accent putting his heritage in Redridge.

“Nunya,” was the herbalist’s reply, still working through the little drawstring bags of his supplies.

Collemer frowned. “Nunya? What kind of a name–”

“Nunya business,” Simon concluded, not once acknowledging his prying with a glance. The frown on his client deepened, and eyes shifted to judge the warrior unabashedly.

“He’s not the kind of company I expected you to keep.”

Now Simon paused and looked down at him. “Oh yeah? And what kinda company did you expect me to keep?”

“A handsome older fellow, perhaps,” Collemer said in a tone Simon none too appreciated. “A bit of brawn where it counts.” He sat up on the stool and spread his palms on the counter, leaning into his arms. “Someone nice to look at and nicer to listen to, if you understand me.” He smirked up at the frowning man, knowing he’d tickled a nerve.

“Sorry, who are you again?”

“Oooh,” he tutted, “what’s the trouble? I’m only playing with you, Simon.”

Simon scoffed and tossed one of his bags closer to the merchant. “Oh yeah, only playing. You know, I like to play games too. Say,” he started, looking into Collemer’s face with a faux layer of interest, “it’s been awhile since I’ve seen Andre. You two were so close. Where’d he get off to? He sure seemed to get off a lot here.”

Collemer’s smarmy attitude diminished before his eyes. Simon held the challenge for another moment, then checked the last of his collection. “What’s the trouble? I’m only playing with you, Collemer.”

“You’re a hoot,” he grumbled, finally paying attention to the task and began to double check what was sorted. “Andre disappeared four months ago,” he said in a way that caused Simon to slow his hands with concerned attentiveness. “I’d seen him off in the afternoon to go to the bank, and he never returned. I thought he blew me off and ran away with the money or somethin’ fishy went on, but even Devin said he’d made the deposit.”

Simon, now finished and waiting for Collemer’s end of the process, folded his arms and leaned into the counter on his hip. “I was here three months ago and you said he’d just stepped out.”

He earned a flat look. Jeez, everyone was calling him stupid with their eyes lately. “I lied to you, Simon,” Collemer told him as though he was speaking to a slow child. “Anyway. I–”

“Why would you lie to me about that?”

Collemer sighed a sigh that was putrid in the air. “I thought maybe he’d turn up in due time. I dunno. We do and say stupid things when we don’t know what’s going on.” 

Simon chewed on this, watching the picking and counting continue. “Nobody has any idea?”

“Not really. I had one person think they saw him being carted off by a couple of men through the Undercity, but no one else can confirm.” Satisfied with the product, he produced a box from under the counter and sorted the bags into the grids. “I’m confused about the whole mess, Simon. I have no idea what happened and what can anyone do about a missing persons case the way things are now?”

Simon shrugged helplessly. “Next to nothing, I suppose. That’s nothing this new world can be concerned about anymore.” He gave Collemer a sympathetic frown at sad way he glanced at him. “It’s not right. Very sad, in a way. I’m sorry, maybe he’ll turn up soon.”

Collemer counted out his promised coin and added a generous gold for Simon’s troubles. “I hope so,” he said softly, almost too tender for the company he currently kept. “He’s a good man.”

“If all else fails,” Simon said, collecting his payment and depositing the bag into his satchel, “we know that we can bring back the dead now, so you’re in much more luck than you were a year ago.”

Collemer shot him a glare and held out his hand. “Give me that gold back.”

“Too late, this transaction is over,” he smiled, turning away. Collemer was trying to hide his smile, but let it happen as he folded his arms over the counter. He watched Simon return to that grotesque silent man whose eyes were always on him, and ask if he was ready to go.

The enigma nodded. Collemer waved goodbye to Simon’s farewell, and was taken aback when the warrior lingered to look at him. He felt as cold as he could feel under the dead, weighted stare that somehow penetrated his bones to the black marrow. 

Time momentarily froze. Their eyes were locked upon each other. He was telling him something. He was sharing some deep, terrible secret with him, without a word said. He knew something. He knew too much. Collemer was washed with a wave of fear, one that reflexively choked his throat and widened his eyes.

He was threatening him to do something about it.

That beast’s hanging tongue curled, swung once, and then the warrior left to serve as Simon’s shadow again.

When they were gone and Collemer was left by himself, the fear gradually was replaced by rage. Sickening, boiling rage, the type that twisted his guts and set his mind on babbling fire.

How dare Simon bring that abomination into his shop. How dare he disrespect him so openly - and make _jokes_ about his poor, lost Andre. How dare he - when his disgusting, slobbering bodyguard taunted him with the death, the _personal involvement,_ of the man he held close.

That thing, whatever it was, had killed Andre.

Collemer was going to tear his insides out.


	5. Find Herbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hillsbrad sure is pretty this time of year.

Simon waded into the thick of a dense patch of hedge all because he saw some bright yellow flowers taunting him from within. He stomped carefully, trying to check where he placed his angry feet before grounding them, and hoped that he didn’t crush anything valuable. The brush around Hillsbrad could be so stiff and full and thrice already he either got stuck or nearly took out his wide eye from falling right over.

That wild steelbloom was going to be his, though. He was no gardener, just a picker, and didn’t understand how or why some plants grew where they did. Gardener wasn’t the right word. He knew this and simply didn’t care. For an herbalist he was absolutely on the willful amateur side. Educate him not on the specifics of things he didn’t really care about, and give him only the details he had any interest in.

Even though Simon had been waiting a living life to do this work, he was shockingly blasé about being any good at it.

While he maneuvered in the bush with the grace of a dazed spider, his bodyguard observed from several feet away. His hands were folded over the hilt’s knob, the sword stuck in the soil. He patiently (supposedly) waited for Simon to make some sort of progress, but due to past experiences in this, it was gonna take a lot of muttering and cursing and throttling plants before they could move on.

The wicked, greasy tongue lapped at the air. Then it curled inward, flicked outward, and slithered side to side as though he were exercising it. He was, technically, though he thought of it more as a game. What could he do with his inhuman tongue? Up down, side to side, inward outward it went, and he absently began to grind his gritty teeth in his sewn mouth.

Simon cursed, and the warrior tilted his chin up. The stickiness of the viscous black ooze coating his tongue webbed in the small space where his throat was cut open. He felt the cool breeze in that wet, then leveled his head to close it off. Still he ground his teeth, idly chewing on nothing but the nuggets themselves, to ache his jaw.

Oh, his jaw ached. It ached constantly. It stung no matter how hard he clenched it, seeking that satisfying pressure that was akin to chewing on a tender steak. His mind wandered aimlessly between focusing on the clenching and minding Simon. The idiot was picking his stupid flowers now, grumbling away about this and that (_“All that bullshit for just six blossoms. I’m going to fucking kill every goddamn plant in this countryside. Six fucking blossoms. I can’t believe how stupid this is. Six goddamn blossoms– oh fuck, mageroyal!”_) and watched as he tried to reach a reach that was too far of a reach for him.

The patchwork man twisted to look around. They were still alone, no animal or passerby in sight. He gazed off into the lush hills, and then up at the gently swaying pines. Hillsbrad was a nice place to be, he thought. It would’ve been a ideal retirement spot back then; maybe he could’ve owned a farm. Suddenly that thought came to a dead stop. Emptiness. Pure emptiness. 

His eyes remained on the trees, and then he brought his observations to Simon. He was cold, mechanical again. He chewed on his teeth and he rolled his tongue like a caterpillar’s crawl. Simon was now inelegantly dancing his way out of the brush, hopping on one foot and hiking the other up high. He looked ridiculous and was lucky, once again, to have made it out without dislodging his forcibly wide eyeball.

The moment that Simon had gathered himself and lifted his head to look at his companion, the tongue had stopped moving. He waited until he was approached to yank the sword from the ground and tuck it into its sheath upon his back. Simon was brushing himself off and huffing, adjusting the bag slung around his hip.

“Well that was horseshit,” he told the warrior. “You have no idea.”

When all he (thought he) got was a dead stare that reiterated that Simon was a moron, he rolled his eyes and began to trudge off along the hillside. “C’mon then,” he said glumly. “Let’s keep this party going. The population here is practically dead. I bet there’s some animal around here eating all the steelbloom or I’ve got other competition. Isn’t it kind of inconsiderate,” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the abomination that dutifully followed him, “that I have to look so hard for a plant that’s supposed to be native and thriving around here? I think it’s ridiculous. I’ll bet there’s someone else out here trying to pick it to extinction. Then again..”

Simon continued to talk through his one-way conversation while they walked. The man that was stranger than death, whose head had not been filled with anything but a sinister air, felt the fog lift once again. In his moment of lucidity he looked away at the trees and the breeze fluttering the grass and tried to remember the nice thing he had thought before.

Hillsbrad was so peaceful. It’d be a nice place to get away and spend a fishing trip, or just some time enjoying the countryside. If he could, he’d probably smile. Yes.. it was beautiful here. He’d have liked to visit back in the day. Maybe even retire and start a farm–

His head snapped back to stare at the back of Simon’s head.

His teeth ground together. And ground. And gnashed. And chewed.

And his tongue curled tight.


	6. /Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Orgrimmar, Tagenzxi experiences an unfortunate case of love at first sight.

When Tagenzxi met Hashruna, he stared. This wasn’t his first, fifth, or even sixtieth time he’d seen a Tauren. They were a great people, true warriors and spiritual leaders, and Tagenzxi had no problem with them. He liked them a lot. He would definitely follow any Tauren general or better yet, Cairne Bloodhoof into battle. If he had to. He really didn’t want to be a part of that kind of mess.

He saw Hashruna in the cold shadows of Orgrimmar’s Drag. That incredible beast was hunched over a brazier with a paper, trying to read off it in the most horrible light he could find. Tagenzxi knew that the lighting circumstances were poor, but as he approached he was awed again. The fire cast a warm gold across a face of black and silver, and his braids hung precariously over the lapping of flames. 

Tagenzxi clutched his overflowing armful of hides and bagged supplies tighter to his chest. His eyes skittered over this man’s face, trying to see everything all at once as well as commit him to memory for something nice to think about later. His horns were black and pointed forward, and were wrapped in colorful threads. They were patterned and ribboned, adorning from tip to center. There were even beaded strings dangling, charms tied at the end that added a dash of mystical elegance.

The Tauren was large, as were all Tauren, and was possibly in his older years. It was notoriously hard to tell, so Tagenzxi thought, and it didn’t help that this one was all white, silver, and only splattered in black.

He was beautiful.

Tagenzxi was losing his grip on his load. He lifted his knee to support it as he tried to gather it all up again. In squeezing the armful he made it worse, the bottom threatening to spill its entire guts onto the dirt. The old shaman huffed, squatting a little as he paddled his arms to ball it all up under his chin. This was ridiculous! By the time he was done fighting with it, he found that the Tauren was gone.

His heart sunk. Though his day had been made nicer just by seeing him, knowing he may never see him again was gonna sting for awhile. He did have that memory of him, and well, he did mean for it to a nice thought for the future. Still, he knew that Tauren would haunt him for awhile. He marveled at the phenomena of a stranger being able to break hearts without any interaction. 

Off he went, semi lost in his own head. He made it to the leatherworker’s hut and dropped the mess onto the merchant’s rug. Tagenzxi then heaved a sigh and stretched his back, grimacing as several joints cracked. He folded his arms tiredly, then swept a hand at his wares.

“Aye, there ya go. Let’s see whatchu can get for me, eh?”

“You’re not going to keep any of these?” Karolek asked, kneeling to sift through the pile. “Or do you have a surplus and you’re selling me the rejects.”

“Tch,” Tagenzxi scoffed. “I’m not like that, mon. Money is tight. My leatherworking can wait.”

Karolek shook his head in disappointment as he sorted the skins. “You’re making a mistake, Tag,” he warned. “You’re going to havI e to go right back out and skin all this shit again. and waste more time.”

The shaman chuckled as he stroked the underside of his chin. “Mebbe. Or haven’t ya heard of a bazaar?”

“And throw away the money you apparently need so badly on skins that are overpriced? Sure. It’s your coin.”

“Oh, shaddap, an’ lecture me next time, Karo.”

He stood there waiting while the leathercraft master did his work, and didn’t notice the new patron. It took a hot minute before he heard the heavy, patient breathing behind him, and before he could turn, a deep woody voice asked: “Are you selling that leather?”

When he turned, and was immediately forced to look up, Tagenzxi’s jaw could have dropped through the ground. There he was. Those delicate little threads were right over his bald head, and green - green! - eyes were gazing into his. Oh, he had never felt so cold for only good reasons. 

The man was clearly waiting for a response. He took hold of his own tongue at last and stammered, “Y-yeah. Yeah, they’re mine. Whatchu need, bruddah?”

A thick hand gestured to the pile closest to them. “Those. If you don’t mind.”

Tagenzxi stared up at him slack jawed and stupid, then took that look to the leather. “Uhhhh..” Now, he was showing Karolek his idiot face. The Orc seemed impressed, amused, and patronizing all at once. His hands had ceased, and now rest on his knees while his Troll student fumbled. 

He was taking more time than as comfortable for anyone to make a decision. Out of anxious panic he grabbed what the Tauren had asked for and thrust right at him. “Here ya go. Ten silver.”

The Tauren seemed surprised, and blinked down at the offerings. “I don’t need that much,” he said. “Just a few.” 

As he chose four pieces of leather from his hands, Tagenzxi burned with embarrassment. Karolek was no doubt hiding his smirks. He dropped the rest back where it was before, and courageously looked the Tauren in the face.

He was rewarded with a smile that made his heart squeeze. “So how much do I owe you now, my friend?”

“Two silver,” he replied, not as confidently as he was planning to sound. He forced himself not to gawk at him while the coin was found and placed in his hand, and again, his heart’s limits were tested under another smile.

“I feel like you’re letting me steal from you,” he was told. “You’ll make a humble businessman.” That smile softened, and Tagenzxi really hoped that his knees wouldn’t buckle. “Thank you, friend. I won’t forget your generosity.”

Like he knew that there was no way the Troll could think of a proper reply, the mysterious man turned, ducked under the doorway, and went about his business. Tagenzxi faced Karolek to find exactly what he knew would be there: a big, smarmy smirk, and the knowing leer of his wife nearby. 

It wasn’t that they knew that he was unfortunately smitten and bitten by the love bug. This was more like the astute observations of a socially awkward old man not knowing how to navigate a sudden confrontation. They were making gentle fun of him, and he was hot with the humiliation. 

Tagenzxi scowled and folded his arms tight again. “Whaddya-OU lookin’ at? C’mon, I have poor purchases to make.” 

While the transaction continued, he thought about the emotionally tumultuous afternoon shoved into perhaps only ten minutes of his life. The Tauren would definitely be in his flitting thoughts and in his daydreams. He got to see him, and he got to hear his voice. He was more than he thought he saw. 

Though he didn’t get to hear his name, perhaps it was better not to, and Tagenzxi would feel better should they never see each other again.

Fuck the love bug.


	7. 1 Talent Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Well Rounded] 1/4 Increased reading comprehension and speed by 1%.

After a couple weeks of all night studies and some embarrassing public missteps (perhaps, Simon, it’s cruel to ask a man whose mouth is clearly sewn shut if he could read the ‘wanted’ of the WANTED sign to him while townsfolk pass in disgusted horror), the abomination was reading better. The words that looked like scraggly runes were taking a coherent shape. This was a huge improvement that couldn’t be shared with his mentor without great efforts. He didn’t know what that kind of effort even looked like.

Then, he had an idea. Up until this point, when Simon was trying to teach him how to read, he had pointed and drug his finger along the top of each word while slowly sounding it out. They were reading children’s stories; a brave knight fighting a yeti, a girl who baked bread, an old man and his farm. They poured over the stories night after night, lasting hours, taking small breaks so he could copy out the words in his slowly bettering penmanship.

Simon had been hoping that he was actually _teaching_ him something, and his bodyguard wasn’t simply chewing and not digesting. He’d given him attitude lately, that’s for sure, since it seemed like he was growing very bored of the same three books they had. Simon was getting pretty sick of them too, and had promised him that they’d look for something else, something a little more difficult, the next time they got to a trading post. All this time however he couldn’t be certain if this was doing him any good.

Tonight they sat across from each other at another uneven table. Simon had his head propped up on his fist and he had the air of disinterest of the task. Both of them were sour about the constant repetition. Over and over they read the same book because its level was a smidge higher than the other two, and Simon was certain that if they had to read about the old man’s farm one more time he was going to kick the table over. 

The patchwork man wasn’t going to put up with it either. They weren’t even two pages in when he suddenly smacked the book right off the table, his tongue thrashing angrily. Simon sat up in shock, eyeballing the warrior as his fists beat dully on the splintered surface. He sat back, his arms long in front of him, and let out a deep sigh.

“Well, you just spoke for the both of us, huh? At least you were the bigger, braver man to do it.”

The guardian shot an acidic look at him. Really, Simon was never going to catch a break these days. Everyone wanted to murder him just a teeny bit every day, and it wasn’t _his_ fault that people were in bad moods.

He dug the heel of his palm into his one normal eye and frowned at the movement across from him. When he pulled his hand back and his vision adjusted out of the static, he was watching the warrior digging through Simon’s backpack.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” He rose to stop him, and didn’t have to. His guardian slammed a wanted poster down on the table and sat heavily in his chair again. Simon couldn’t read well upside down, but he did know that this was way out of his reach. “Oh, no. C’mon, you can’t read that yet. That’s going to be way too much–”

He recoiled when his hand was slapped away from the page. Offended, he huffed softly and took his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine. Go for it. Be my guest.”

His companion began to read. Like Simon had always demonstrated, he slowly moved his fingertip underneath the letters as he made sense of them. Simon watched in cocky silence, figuring that the two words he has passed already went truly unknown. The third word approached, a long one, and he paused, his stitched brow folding.

His finger tapped twice beneath the word. Simon shook his head and shrugged at him. “What?” Two more taps, and he leaned in to take a closer look. “I can’t read too well upside down, buddy.”

The tongue licked the air and he twisted the poster to the side to share, forcing them both at a similarly awkward angle. “Uhh.. authority. Ah-thor-eh-tee. Authority.”

His pupil stared at the word, then pulled it back in front of him. His finger passed three times underneath it, and when he thought he had it down, he tapped beneath it once. And he moved on. As they poured over the poster, Simon caught on to the new system: two taps for “help”, one tap for “I got it”. 

The whole first run took them a fairly long time. In the end they were both relieved, the tension between them no longer smothering the room. 

It was decided that they’d read it two more times tonight, then they (Simon) would have some real relaxation time. As the second reading went smoother than the first, a long-forgotten feeling blossomed inside the warrior that he’d be able to hold on to for too short a time.

He was proud of himself. After all this time, from childhood to adulthood to undeath, he could now read. He could finally read, and he was filled with pride.

Despite this, in the far (or not so distant) future, they may discover that it would have been best to leave him illiterate, and what a devastating day that would be.


End file.
